Immoral Republicans: A Response

Last week, The Monitor published “The Inherent Immorality of the Republican Party.” I urge my readers−Democratic, Republican, and otherwise−to look over that article, if they have not already. In it, Evan Weinstein argues that Republicans or at least conservatives “have always been morally deficient.” Unable to comprehend how Republicans can hold views that he feels are morally debased while being seemingly kind and caring, Mr. Weinstein is left puzzled.

Mr. Weinstein and I, and likely many others, agree that President Trump is amoral. The president’s infamously repugnant attitude toward women alone is enough to corrode his moral credibility. It is, however, an unsubstantiated overgeneralization to claim that “Republicans tend to be less friendly and empathetic to those with racial or economic or gender differences.” Such a logical leap seems based more on feeling than serious consideration of Republican or conservative principles.

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Historic Preservation in Cuba

When Americans think of Cuba, they often think of a land frozen in time. Indeed, a quick Google search for “Cuba” brings forward images of vintage cars parked in front of historic, if run-down, looking buildings. Palm trees and statues stand side-by-side in what is undoubtedly a historic island. Given such a reputation, one might assume that Cuba has a robust national agenda for historic preservation. But this is not the case. Due to the lessening of tensions between Cuba and the United States that began under the Obama administration, tourism in the country has continued to increase. Tourism and preservation efforts are not usually forces that work in tandem. Accordingly, those of us who are history-minded should pay close attention to the ongoing state of preservation practice in Cuba.

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Abroad in Virginia: Reflection On A Year

I vividly remember walking past the History Department’s offices on the second floor of Kirner-Johnson in late January of last year. It was cold out — the kind of cold particular to upstate New York—and I felt trapped. Hamilton was already beginning to feel small. I saw, tacked on the bulletin board across from Professor Kelly’s office, a poster emblazoned with the College of William & Mary’s distinctive logo. Intrigued, I walked over to read it.

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History: A Changing Discipline

A professor recently asked our class if we believe biographies offer a fair account of the historical record. After some debate, he asserted that they tend to overemphasize the subject’s actions and downplay the roles of supporting characters. He cited Joseph Ellis’s biography of Thomas Jefferson, American Sphinx, as an example – one that exaggerates Jefferson’s centrality to history and, at least by implication, understates others’ significance.

To support this point, my professor noted Ellis’s treatment of Maria Cosway, an Italian woman who held Jefferson’s romantic attention while he served in Paris. He argued that the essential problem with Ellis’s portrayal is that he describes Cosway only in reference to Jefferson. Instead of elaborating on her successful artistic career, the author limits her role to one of romantic interest, thereby insinuating that she was historically significant only as an object of Jefferson’s flirtation. By refusing Cosway importance on her own, in other words, Ellis supposedly exemplifies a sort of misogyny typical of biographies as a genre. The professor maintained further that Ron Chernow, Alexander Hamilton’s most celebrated biographer, fell victim to this same “misogyny” in his portrayal of Hamilton’s wife, Eliza. The greater point made in this class discussion seemed to be not the pitfalls of biography, but rather that history should not just be the study of “old, white, aristocratic men.”

In presenting his views, my professor implicitly touched upon a relatively recent trend in the study of history. Over the past 20 years, scholarship has shifted away from studies of prominent military and political figures toward portraits of “everyday people.” Accordingly, when I used JSTOR to research a paper on the First World War, articles like “Expanding the Narrative: A First World War with Women, Children, and Grief” and “The Homosexual Scare and the Masculinization of German Politics Before World War One” popped up in the results tab.

There is nothing inherently wrong with wanting to unearth a more complete history than the one previously presented by scholars. Women, children, and gay men all contributed to the greater political and cultural climate of the early 20th century. However, I fear that increased attention to these groups has led some scholars and students to perceive a false dichotomy between “old, white, aristocratic men” and everyone else. One cannot simply celebrate a history that ignores the so-called great men to whom, until recently, scholars paid a disproportionate amount of their attention.

For instance, one cannot deny that President Wilson exercised more influence over the course of history than, say, a poor woman from Detroit. This is not a value statement; it is merely a fact. I am not arguing that historians should not consider this woman’s experiences during the war, merely that someone else − Wilson − was more influential and should be treated as such.

One result of the current academic culture is the conflation of identity politics with sound historical inquiry. What concerns me most is that many historians are now sacrificing an understanding of all these supposedly overblown men in the spirit of inclusivity for its own sake.

Consider how one such historian might address the German general Ludendorff. His German and Polish ancestry put him outside the category of Anglo-Saxon descent – which people have begun to interpret as the real meaning of the altogether useless ethnic category of “white.” Yet he could easily, nonetheless, get lumped into this group on account of his fair skin and duly ignored. Offering a history that disregards, based on his “whiteness,” General Ludendorff and his actions is nothing more than academic laziness.

There should not be two opposing schools of thought on these matters. An accurate account of history would recognize the greater influence, for good and for ill, of the actions of those in charge while explaining the larger world made up of common folk.

The Open Curriculum

Hamilton students and admissions officers alike extol the value of our open curriculum. For applicants who were restricted by stringent high school graduation requirements, colleges with minimal distribution requirements have a certain allure. I remember sitting in Chemistry class my senior year and dreaming of the day I would no longer have to take science classes. This initial appeal, however, wore off soon after my first semester.

It may seem innocuous to, as the Hamilton website says, “choose courses that reflect your interests,” but prospective students should be wary of the consequences of such a curriculum structure. For example, it is entirely plausible that in an upper-level Government seminar, not a single student has read the classic works of political philosophy.

The open curriculum allows students to avoid challenging themselves by providing them with opportunities to take classes their peers have identified as “less strenuous.” Instead of taking a class that focuses on analyzing Nietzsche’s works, for example, students too often choose to enroll in courses where only a brief engagement with Nietzsche’s political thought (via a quick Google search) is necessary. In opting out of the mental discipline required for detailed study of such a topic, students do themselves a disservice.

I cannot, however, entirely fault students for avoiding classes reputed to be particularly difficult. We are, in large part, heirs to an academic culture that overemphasizes the importance of a strong grade point average. Beginning in middle school, and probably even earlier for some students, parents and teachers conflate grades with intelligence levels and overall success. Although the common understanding that good grades equate to a good future is true only to an extent, increasingly competitive college admission standards incentivize students to put stock in this belief. Inculcated with it at an early age, they have little reason to reassess such a value structure after coming to Hamilton.

Students’ tendency not to challenge themselves speaks to a wider attitude toward Hamilton’s role in shaping their future. On campus, there is a general sentiment that Hamilton functions as a gateway to financial prosperity, one example of which is the Government department’s emphasis on law school admissions. As a result of this careerist culture, students look for instructors who seem to hand out A’s with little discretion so that future employers can see what looks like a stellar transcript.

To the administration’s credit, our faculty advisors are told to hold us accountable to the college’s mission of academic diversity by instructing us to engage with multiple disciplines. While advisors may seem a practical safeguard against students’ temptations to fill their schedules with shallow courses or ones that are too similar to each other, in practice they exercise little control over their choices of classes.

What, then, is the proper way to ensure that students challenge themselves in the classroom?

I believe the onus is on individual departments to increase course requirements for pursuing a major. In doing so, faculty can reevaluate what is necessary to have a firm grasp of their subject, including the study of related ones. By increasing requirements for majors, departments can reinforce the interdisciplinary nature of their fields. Moreover, a basis for this type of reform already exists. Courses that are cross-listed between departments allow students to explore subjects related to their majors. I would encourage departments to add certain cross-listed courses, if they meet the appropriate academic standard, to the major requirements. While complete reform of the Open Curriculum is unlikely, departments can take proactive measures on their own to ensure that students are not academically limited.